Page 44 of Severance

While he rolls a joint, I scan the room. The faces surrounding me are unfamiliar. They have glazed eyes and disinterested expressions, and I’m glad no one cares I’m wearing sweats.

“This is some good shit,” Zeke says, handing me the joint. “You need to try it.”

“I don’t—”

A girl with purple hair interrupts me, “It’ll make you feel good.”

“Yeah. Try it,” another voice to my right slurs.

I stick the joint between my lips and Zeke lights it up. The moment smoke fills my lungs, a massive cough spasm attacks me. Tears prick my eyes.

I hear a storm of laughter and giggles.

“Easy, Cupcake Queen.” Zeke slaps my back as I hack out the smoke. “Go slow or it’ll hit you really hard.”

I sip on the drink Mikah made me to sooth my throat and smoke some more of the joint, this time following Zeke’s advice and pacing myself.

My head begins to spin, but I don’t believe the weed is working. By the time I’ve finished the joint and the drink, I feel like crap. Sleepy, dizzy, and tired crap. The faces in front of me are now dancing smears and the queasiness in my stomach has returned.

I tug on the sleeve of Zeke’s flannel shirt. “I don’t feel very well. I think I need to lie down.”

He hooks his arm through mine and leads me away from the pool table, his double exposure grin flashing at me as we move through the living room crowd.

People are everywhere—on the couches, in the corners, leaning against the walls. The music and the barrage of voices begin to close in on me. Then comes a loud pop.

Bang!

My heart trips in my chest.

More noise.

Bang!

“Zeke!” I jerk my arm away from his and spin around. The low thud of my pulse pounding in my head hurts my eardrums, and my voice doesn’t sound like mine at all, more like it’s been run through a voice generator. “Zeke?” I hear a strange buzzing.

“You lost, beautiful?” someone calls out. His squinty eyes glide over me and he scrunches his crooked nose.

I force my tongue to move. “Have you seen Mikah?”

“Huh?” His mouth forms a perfect “O” and a gust of alcohol-drenched breath strokes my cheeks.

“Have you seen Mikah?”

“Who?”

“Mikah?” My lips feel numb. Am I saying his name correctly or does he go by a pseudonym in this house?

The perfect O guy with the mousy eyes disappears and I drive through the crowd in the direction of the hallway. Hallways mean bedrooms. Bedrooms mean beds. Beds mean sleep.

The floorboards beneath my feet begin to shift, and my body feels heavier with each step as my heart hammers.

I stop, pressing my back against the wall, and stare at a yellow glow coming at me through the doorway of the room across from me. There, above a row of candles, stands Dakota. The eyeliner and stage-ready-hair Dakota. In his leather jacket and a tight black tee.

My heart flips and I feel goose bumps rising on my arms. He’s hauntingly beautiful, just like the first time I saw him.

I push myself off the wall and step into the room, my eyes skimming over the flickering candles lined up on top of a cabinet.

Sadness and disappointment roll through me. He’s not real. It’s just a photo. A cutout from a big promotional Midnight Rust poster.

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